The Death of a Heart
by Insomniac37
Summary: Dey say I ain't got a heart. Dey say I'm cold. Youse wanna know why? No, it ain't 'cause of a woman. No, I don't cry at night ova my dead parents. I do have a heart, it jus' don't belong ta me anymore. *Rated for language* Completed!
1. Prologue

Brooklyn.

Dey say home is where tha heart is. Dey say I ain't got a heart, but it ain't true. Brooklyn owns my heart. Brooklyn is tha only home I eva known.

See, my home ain't bordered by the walls of some peelin', white-washed warehouse. Tha warehouse is jus' a buildin'; an abandoned building overlookin' a dirty brown river beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. It's jus' a place ta sleep; a roof ova my head.

Don't get me wrong. Wit' all dat's happened, I'm grateful I got dat. It's prolly tha one thing dat's stayed tha same. Well, dat and Mitts. He's tha only friend I got left. Man, am I grateful for him too. I dunno where I'd be if it weren't for Mitts. Prolly layin' dead in an alley somewhere. Course, he'd be tha same if it weren't for me. But dat's what friends are for.

_"Jesus Mitts, ya face looks like a piece a meat."_

_"Oh thanks, Vito, dat makes me feel betta 'bout tha whole thing. Fuckin' asshole." _

Yea, friends are people dat keep youse from bein' six feet unda, or try to at least. I guess I ain't been much of a friend.

Dere used ta be five a us. Now it's jus' me and Mitts. I can't really afford to go makin' no more friends. I mean, I got lots a people I know well. Some a dem I even like. But dey ain't real friends. Not like us five used ta be.

Me, Mitts, Soap, Vito and Vin. We was a good team. I swear ta God I'd give anythin' to have dem back. I'd a taken a knife or a bullet for any one of dem. I jus' wasn't in time. If I had been he'd be standin' hea now, doin' what he was supposed ta be doin', insteada me.

_"Youse gonna lead dem now. Youse gonna have ta carry dat weight."_

_"Why me?"_

_" 'Cause ya can."_

And dat's tha truth. I ain't hea leadin' tha Brooklyn Newsies 'cause I wanna. I'm hea 'cause I'm tha only one left dat can. And someone had to, or everything dat happened woulda meant nothin'. I couldn't let dat happen; couldn't watch everythin' we worked so hard for mean shit in tha end. So hea I am, with tha support a every single newsie in Brooklyn. For tha first time eva, we are Brooklyn. We're all united, a whole, unda me.

Dat sorta makes me laugh. I mean, really, it's ridiculous. All I eva was, was a good fighter. Tha best of us, yea I'll admit it. But Soap had more conviction, Vito was a betta talker, Mitts kept us betta informed and Vin-

Vin started it all. From tha moment he walked inta our lives 'til tha second he left, he was tha drivin' force behind all a dis. I had his back. I'd a taken a knife for him, and really, I didn't know anythin' 'bout him. 'Cept dat he had an unshakable sense of what was right and what was wrong, and dat he was always singin' dat damn song. Easy tune, real slow. I still can't forget it.

_"I had a dream, dear. Youse had one, too._

_Mine was tha best dream, because it was a youse."_

_"Ya know, dat song sounds a lot betta when Sam sings it."_

_"Come, sweetheart, tell me. Now is tha time."_

_"Hey, youse listenin' ta me?"_

_"Youse tell me ya dream, and I'll tell youse mine."_

We neva knew where he came from; why he was dere; what made him wanna help us so bad, none of it. We neva even knew his name. Vin was short for somethin', I guess. Vincent maybe, hell I dunno. It didn't matta at tha time. It don't even matta now.

In tha end, everythin' worked out for everyone. 'Cept tha five a us. Brooklyn got what it needed and we paid tha price. It was a heavy price; a price of lives and hearts.

Yea, home is where tha heart is. Dey say I ain't got a heart. I guess it really is true. I ain't got one no more 'cause Brooklyn took it.

Brooklyn.

* * *

_A.N. I don't own Newsies :D Spare a review?_


	2. Chapter 1

It was still mid-morning, but it was already hot. It was the kind of heat that settled along the ground, cooking you from the feet up; the kind that made it difficult to draw a deep breath of air without feeling like you were drowning on it. It was the kind of day that made you drip sweat but didn't let it evaporate off you, so that all day you felt like you were swimming in your clothes. He felt the place where his red suspenders met between his shoulders sticking, wet and uncomfortable, to his back.

Spot Conlon sighed, trying not to choke on the thick air. He stopped in the middle of the street and raised his cap off his head, running the back of his forearm across his forehead. He felt sweat and the grit of dirt on both parts of his body as they made contact. He wondered vaguely what he had accomplished with his actions as he shook his dirty blond hair out of his eyes, settled his cap back on his head and walked on.

Spot rarely did anything without a reason and though it had looked like a trivial act, it wasn't. His pale blue eyes had been warily scanning the surrounding streets. He knew the heavy price that he and his three friends would pay if anyone had followed him. The abandoned, peeling and white-washed warehouse was their safe house. Finch and his boys didn't know about the place and they could not afford for him to find out. Vito still had a yellowing black eye from the latest encounter with Finch's boys, and Spot knew it was only going to get worse.

He spent a minute or two satisfying himself that there were no shadowy figures lurking in any nearby alleys following him. Then he slipped down the dock and lost himself quickly in the tangled mess of broken and rusting metal equipment, disused wooden scaffolding and torn fishing nets. He rolled open the heavy warehouse door just enough to slip through it and shut it with a bang behind him.

" Heya Spot."

He stared into the semi-darkness for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the lack of light. Then, amidst the empty crates and forgotten tools, the outlines of two of his friends came into focus.

"Me and Soap was jus' gonna start a game. Youse in?"

"Fuck no, Vito. Youse ain't cheatin' me outta my money."

Vito slapped his deck of cards down on the crate they were using as a card table and looked up at Spot. There was a look of surprised outrage on his face along with the yellowing bruise that had been in Spot's thoughts only a few minutes ago.

"Ya know, I resent dat. I neva cheat at cards."

Spot raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly, advancing on them both. He leaned down slightly over the table and began to rifle through Vito's cards.

"So what's tha buy-in?" He asked casually.

"Two bits." Vito supplied, watching Spot count his cards. "Hey come on. It ain't a rigged deck."

"Jus' makin' sure, Vito, jus' makin' sure." He said soothingly as his right hand slipped behind Vito's head, unnoticed.

With the skill of a practiced pickpocket, Spot's fingers found the edge of Vito's hat and deftly extracted a card from beneath it. He straightened up again and flipped the card over in his fingers, staring interestedly at it.

"Huh, Ace of spades." He said casually.

Vito's hand flew to his hat and Spot smirked at him, catching him in the act.

"Where'd youse get dat, Spot?" He asked innocently, attempting to play off the motion by scratching fervently at the back of his head.

"From unda ya hat, Vito." Spot replied with the same innocent tone.

"Aw, I knew it. Fuck youse, Vito." Soap huffed, pushing his chair back from the table. "Thanks, Spot."

"Anytime." Spot grinned.

He flipped the card onto the table in front of Vito. It spun there for a moment and Vito sighed as he stared down at it.

"Man, can't get anyone ta play me for money anymore."

"Maybe youse oughta stop cheatin'." Soap said, rolling his eyes.

Spot could tell he was a little annoyed, but Soap never stayed mad at Vito for long. They were close friends.

"Yea, but den I don't win." Vito sighed.

All three of them laughed.

"Maybe Mitts'll play me." Vito mused.

"Don't count on it." Spot advised sagely. "Hey speakin' of Mitts, either a youse seen him?"

Vito shook his head and Soap leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully.

"When do youse ever see Mitts?" He asked with a grin.

"Right before he picks ya pocket." Vito answered him, beginning to shuffle his cards again.

"We thought he'd be wit' youse. I ain't seen him all day."

"Yea, me either." Spot added pacing to the small, dirty window that faced the street.

"I'm sure he's fine."

"Yea, I know, but I'ma go look for him."

"What? Ya gonna go lookin' for a single grain of sand in a haystack?"

Soap and Spot exchanged a look. Then Spot shrugged and sauntered back out of the warehouse. Spot never would have admitted it, but he was worried about Mitts. The boy's absence, the heat of the day and the fact that Finch's boys had been suspiciously quiet the last week made him uneasy. He did not like that feeling.


	3. Chapter 2

There were a few things that Mitts was good at. He was a damn good newsie, he could coax information out of almost anyone, he could tail someone across the whole city without being seen and, despite the fact that he was the skinniest of all four of his closest friends, he could drink them all under the table.

The thing he was best at, however, was relieving innocent passers-by of their valuables. Mitts was a master pickpocket. He stole wallets, pocket watches and hand bags. In short: he lifted anything that wasn't nailed down. He would do it with a slight bump, a smile and a hasty apology. His marks never felt a thing; never knew what hit them.

Spot, his best friend, had been the one to nickname him Mitts. Of his four friends, Spot was the only one that knew his real name and he preferred it that way. Plus, he liked the name Mitts. It suited him and his talents. There were some things that came naturally to some people and Mitts had been born to steal wallets.

He and Spot had been friends since the age of seven. Over the years Mitts had taught Spot how to pickpocket. It wasn't so much that he had devised a lesson plan and taken Spot to the streets for hands-on experimentation, it was just something he had picked up from being around Mitts so often. It was difficult to stay terrible at something your best friend was so good at. Spot had watched Mitts steal so many wallets that he could lift a few himself, though Mitts' skill was unrivaled.

At the same time, Spot had taught Mitts how to fight. When they were younger, it had seemed like Spot had gotten in as many fights as Mitts lifted wallets and he had always won. Now that they were a bit older, there seemed to be fewer fights for Spot. Maybe it was because he had matured a little and punched away some of the anger, or maybe it was because he had punched it away so many times there were few people left who wanted to face him down.

Unfortunately for Mitts, his skill at fighting rivaled Spot's skill at pickpocketing. He was mediocre at best. Mitts would never have counted himself as one of the best fighters in Brooklyn. Spot certainly, but not him. He wasn't the worst by a long shot, but at this very moment it all meant very little.

Currently, Mitts had seven of the biggest and meanest newsies in Brooklyn staring down their noses at him, cracking their knuckles and smirking at each other. Mitts had thrown everything he had at them. He had turned on his charm and tried talking and coaxing. Hell, he had even offered to buy them all a drink, but these boys had not come to talk.

These were boys who were loyal to the currently leader of the Brooklyn Newsies: Casey Finch. Finch was their leader simply because there was no one else to do it. He was not particularly well-respected outside of his small core of friends. He was not smart or well-spoken. In fact, he seemed to lack almost all the necessary qualities a good leader should have had, except that he was big, muscular and mean. Mitts was not even sure that was a characteristic of a good leader, it just made him more intimidating.

Naturally, Finch seemed to attract the same kinds of boys as he was. The big, mean, stupid kind. It was this kind that had him out-numbered seven-to-one in a deserted street, with his back to a metaphorical and physical wall. What he would not have given for Spot to turn up about now.

After five minutes of so of non-stop smooth talking, without so much as a grunt in response, Mitts gave up. His back was to the bricks and these boy's heads were full of the same. With nothing left for it, when they attacked, he fought back.

But there were seven of them and one of him. It was not a pretty sight.


	4. Chapter 3

Something was happening.

Vin didn't know what yet, but he knew something was going down. When his sharp ears picked up the noise of a fight, he grimaced and nodded to himself. It seemed about right. Heat did things to people and it was a hot one today. His feet led him down the wide alley even though his brain told him it was none of his business. What he saw at the end of it made him frown and instinctively clench his fists.

Several of Finch's boys were beating a rather skinny kid to a pulp. It looked as though he had given up a while ago. One of them was holding the boy's arms behind his back, two or three of them were taking turns punching him and three or four more stood by, laughing.

" Hey c'mon, now. Hasn't he had enough?" Vin shouted before he could stop himself.

All the eyes in the alley were now on him and he bit his tongue, wishing he had done it about three seconds earlier. He held his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. He did not want to re-direct their anger at him. After all, he didn't know the skinny kid, he just felt bad for him.

"What's it to youse?" Called one of them.

"Nothin'," Vin said quickly. "I'm jus' sayin' youse showed him. He ain't fightin' back no more."

"Yea, dat's right. Youse wanna take his place?" The biggest of them, a thick, blond boy, took a few steps forward.

Vin shook his head.

"I don't, but-"

"I do."

All eyes, once again, found the newcomer to the alley, who had seemed to magically appear from thin air. Vin had seen him before. There was no mistaking the cold ice-blue stare, the red suspenders or the gold-topped cane. This was Spot Conlon, one of the best fighters in Brooklyn. He had been pointed out to Vin as someone never to cross.

Vin was momentarily surprised at how short and skinny Spot was. Vin was tall for his age, but he had at least six inches and fifty pounds on Spot. He wondered vaguely how the kid had gained such a reputation as a fighter.

Apparently, Spot's reputation preceded him in more than just Vin's mind. The boys at the other end of the alley hesitated, despite the fact that there were more of them. They murmured amongst themselves for a moment and as they did so, Spot glanced at Vin.

"Who are youse?" He asked quietly.

"Nobody." Vin whispered back. "It was jus' seven-on-one. Didn't seem fair to me."

Spot raised his eyebrows and inclined his head slightly to Vin and then turned his attention back to the mass of newsies at the end of the alley.

"So Marcus, what'd youse go and kick tha shit outta Mitts for?" He called.

"He was askin' for it." The same thick, blond newsie from before answered.

"He asked ta get soaked in a seven-on-one, insteada fair fight? Or youse jus' too scared to take on a skinny kid on ya own?" Spot spit on the ground beside him. "How's 'bout youse and me settle dis?"

Marcus sneered at Spot and stepped forward, silently accepting the challenge.

Vin watched in fascination. There was something strange about this Spot Conlon. As Marcus taunted and feinted punches, he stood poker-straight with his shoulders thrown back and his head held high. His face was an absolute impassive mask of coldness. There was no hint of dismay or misgiving about his situation. Not a muscle in his body moved. Even his ice-blue eyes lay still in their sockets, unfocused and unblinking, taking in everything at once.

At last, when Marcus had enough of taunting Spot without any sort of response he attacked. He lunged forward, swinging his huge fist at Spot's head, and finally Spot moved.

His reaction was as quick as lightning. The wild punch hit nothing but air as Spot ducked it effortlessly and struck back with both of his fists. As Marcus doubled over Spot drew his cane from his suspenders with a motion like drawing a sword. He gripped it like a bat and swung it at Marcus' head. Blood spewed from Marcus' mouth as he crumpled to the alley floor.

The cane was raised again, high in the air, and brought down with vicious force. Blood spattered the front of Spot Conlon's face and chest. The rest of the newsies gave cries of shock and outrage. Then they turned tail and ran like the cowards that they were.

They pushed past Vin as if he weren't really there, watching the cane fall twice more on it's already feebly stirring victim. Before Vin had really contemplated what he was doing, he threw himself forward and with both hands, seized Spot's arm.

Spot stared up at him. His eyes were mean and dangerous.

"You'll kill him." Vin said as he wretched the cane from Spot's grip.

"So?"

"Youse gotta be kiddin' me."

"He swung first."

There was no regret or remorse written across Spot's face. There was not even any anger or rage written there, only cold disinterest. It sent a shiver down Vin's spine. Perhaps this was the reason he had garnered such a reputation.

Wordlessly, Spot moved away down the alley towards Mitts. Vin followed him in a daze, not wishing to be any closer to Marcus than he had to be. It took Spot a few seconds to shake Mitts awake.

"Spot?"

"Yea."

"What kept ya?"

"Sorry, Mitts." Spot said with a grin.

For just a moment, Vin thought about how completely bizarre Spot looked, spattered with blood, grinning down at his friend.

"Can youse walk?" Spot asked Mitts.

He hefted one of Mitts arms over his shoulders and helped him to his feet. Mitts stumbled a few steps and Vin instinctively reached out to grab his other arm, which he threw around his own shoulders as Spot had done.

"Who's ya friend?" Mitts asked a little blearily.

"I dunno. Nobody." Spot smirked a little. "Youse got a name?"

"Vin."

Spot met his eyes and nodded once. Vin thought it must have been his way of saying '_thanks_'. For as little as he knew of Spot Conlon, he figured it was not a phrase he over-used.


	5. Chapter 4

"Tha fuck happened to youse?" Soap asked incredulously as Spot, Mitts and Vin crossed the threshold of the warehouse, looking like some sort of four-legged, three-headed monster.

"Shaddap, Soap, go get us some ice."

Soap gave Spot an exasperated look. It was clear he wanted to hear the story, but he took another look at Mitts' face and bolted out the warehouse door.

"Jesus Mitts, ya face looks like a piece a meat." Vito said inspecting him closely as they sat him down in a chair.

"Oh thanks, Vito, dat makes me feel betta 'bout tha whole thing. Fuckin' asshole."

Spot laughed and Vito gave Mitts an apologetic grin.

"Well, youse in rare form today, Mitts." He said matter-of-factly. "So what happened?"

"They tickled me wit' a feather duster. What it look like?" Mitts roared.

Vito glanced up at Spot with raised eyebrows.

"Well, I guess he's gonna be alrigh'."

Vin couldn't help but laugh with them.

"Goddammit, I hate youse guys sometimes." Mitts sighed.

"Yea, yea, youse ain't a picnic either, sweetheart." Vito laughed at him, clapping him on the shoulder.

Mitts winced and Vito quickly removed his hand.

"Ooh, sorry." He said and meant it as Mitts stared up at him with narrowed, watery eyes.

Soap was back, carrying ice in the front of his shirt. He looked around for something to put it in, then instead, merely took off his shirt, whacked the whole bundle against a nearby crate a couple of times and handed it to Mitts.

"So, what happened? Ya face looks like a piece a meat." He said as Mitts took the ice from him and glared at him for his choice of words.

Spot chuckled and preempted Mitts' outburst.

"It was Marcus and a bunch of Finch's boys. Seven of dem." He explained while divesting himself of his bloodied shirt.

"God Mitts, it's a wonder youse survived."

Mitts nodded glumly in appreciation of fact, tenderly pressing the ice pack to the left side of his already blackening face.

"I got dat bastard, Marcus, for youse though." Spot said off-handedly, buttoning a cleaner shirt. "Mighta killed him."

"Jesus, Spot!" Vito exclaimed. "What d'ya mean youse '_mighta killed him_'?"

His eyes flicked to Vin who had been watching the whole exchange with amusement. His eyes seemed to ask for confirmation, so Vin nodded and twitched Spot's cane in his hands, which was still red in places instead of black. Vito's eyes flew back to Spot's blood spattered face as he wiped a dirty, wet rag across it.

"Youse is crazy. I mean, bat-shit insane." He said pointing a finger at him in accusation.

Vin was glad someone else was voicing his thoughts; glad someone else thought Spot's reaction had been a little severe. He laughed, but he was the only one. The rest of them were staring at Spot. Their expressions were not surprised or amused. It was almost as if they had seen it happen before. That thought unnerved him even more.

"Thanks, Spot." Mitts said, finally breaking the silence.

"Anytime, Mitts." Spot said, as if he were being thanked for passing the salt.

"Yea, yea, what are friends for, if not to kill people for youse?" Vito asked incredulously, scratching at the back of his head. "Youse is both crazy."

Spot shrugged, handing Mitts the wet towel he had used on his own face. Then he moved around to help Mitts with his shirt. Vin thought it was an odd thing to watch. The same skinny kid he had seen brutally cane a boy on the street was now kneeling next to his friend, tenderly sliding the shirt from his bruised shoulders, pausing as he winced, adjusting so he wouldn't have to move as much. Yes, that was what friends were for and in that moment, Vin made a mental note to himself never to become an enemy of Spot Conlon.

"So how do youse figure inta all dis?" Soap asked after a moment, nodding his head at Vin, his voice breaking into his thoughts.

"I was jus' passin'. Shouldn't have gotten involved in the first place. If Spot hadn't shown up, I'd prolly look like Mitts right now too." Vin shrugged.

Soap sank into a nearby chair, looking a little dazed.

"Man, dis is all my fault. I'm sorry, Mitts."

"Shaddap, Soap, ya know it ain't."

Mitts lowered his ice pack from his face. Vin thought he probably ought to have left it there if he was trying to make Soap feel better instead of worse. Indeed, Soap took one look at Mitts' face and sunk his head into his hands.

"Wait, I'm lost. How's it ya fault?" Vin piped up at once.

"See, Soap hea had an argument wit' Finch 'bout a week ago." Vito explained. "He called him a- what was it, Soap?"

"A lousy leader and a failed human being." Came Soap's answer through his fingers.

Vin tried not to laugh and had to cover his reaction with a cough. Spot and Vito grinned at him. It was no secret that Finch was not much of a leader, but generally, you took care who you voiced such an opinion around.

"See, Queens is invading Brooklyn territory, takin' our sellin' spots and soakin' our boys and Finch ain't doin' nothin' ta stop it."

"Don't seem right." Vin said.

"Dat's what I said." Soap intoned.

"Anyways, we all took Soap's back. Youse know, what are friends for?" Vito continued.

"Other than almost killing people for youse?" Vin put in with a smirk.

Spot's blue eyes glanced up appraisingly at him. There was something close to a smile on his face.

"Dere were a bunch a other newsies dat seemed ta be on our side at tha time." Soap said with a sigh.

"Yea, but when it came right down to it. Well, youse see what Finch's boys are like. Can't really blame nobody for not wanting ta end up looking like meat-face hea." Vito finished pointing at Mitts.

"I swear to God, Vito, one more time and I'll-"

"What? You'll have Spot soak me?"

"Maybe."

Vito glanced from Mitts to Spot. Spot's eyebrows raised slightly, but he did not comment.

"Alrigh', I'm sorry." Vito sighed.

"Fuck all dis." Soap said suddenly, getting to his feet. "I need a drink. Mitts, how 'bout youse?"

"Could kill for one." Mitts agreed immediately, getting to his feet a little unsteadily.

"Youse mean have Spot kill-" Vito stopped short at the look on Mitts' face.


	6. Chapter 5

The bar off Fulton street was a little small and a little shabby. It was the kind of place the might have looked really grand ten years ago. Now it stayed covered in a light layer of grease and sweat, no matter how often it was cleaned. The sign out front had once proclaimed the place '_Cuspidors_' in thick gold letters. Like the rest of the bar, the years had worn away the better parts of the sign and now it just read '_Cusp_'.

Groups of dark, wooden tables and chairs stood grouped around a center stage with heavy, deep red, velvet curtains. There was no one on it at the moment. It was still early afternoon and Vin supposed they saved the entertainment until evening. Only a few patrons sat here or there, mostly alone, some already slumped across their tables with their heads down.

A long bar spanned the left wall of the room. It was old and, well-worn with cigarette burns standing out dark against the wood every few feet. An old and well-worn man stood behind it, looking every bit as though he belonged there; as if he were merely a part of the furniture in the bar as opposed to the bartender. He looked up as they entered and nodded at them.

"Heya, Johnny. Where's Sam?" Soap called to him as they approached.

The bartender wordlessly shrugged and began setting glasses in a line on the bar, pulling them from underneath it like a magician promising a good magic trick; one that would make their low spirits disappear.

Johnny grunted as they sat down at the bar. His eyes had fallen on Mitts.

"Ya face looks like a piece a meat." He said gruffly, pouring a generous measure of a dark brown liquid into the first glass and sliding it across the bar at Mitts.

Mitts rolled his eyes, but simply raised his glass and drank the whole thing down. Johnny grunted again and re-filled his glass, then moved down the bar to fill the rest of them.

"Hiya Nate."

Vin turned his head to see a blond girl kiss Soap on the cheek. She was plainly dressed, with her hair swept softly off her shoulders. She was cute, but not stunning. The rest of the boys smiled at her, each with a look in their eyes that told him plainly that they all nursed a tiny sweet spot for her. Soap swiveled in his bar stool to pull her into a one-armed hug. Her eyes fell on Mitts as she smiled at them.

"Jesus, Mitts."

"I know, I know. I look like a piece a meat." He sighed and tapped the bottom of his glass on the bar at Johnny who refilled it at once.

"You get in a fight?"

"It was a tickling match, apparently." Vito supplied at once. "Weapons of choice were feather dusters according ta Mitts."

The boys, except Mitts, all snorted into their drinks. She stared at all of them in turn, her eyes asking for answers that none of them gave.

"No one's gonna tell me what happened?" She asked, her eyes wide.

"Aw, sweetheart, we jus' don't wanna see youse frown." Spot said leaning away from the bar to look at her.

"Yea, Sam if youse weren't hea smilin' everyday, I don't know how I'd keep livin'." Vito added, toasting her with his glass.

"I just worry about you boys, is all." She sighed, brushing some of Mitts' hair out of his face to stare closely at his blackened eye and swollen nose.

"Hey, I'm fine." Mitts said, a soft smile spreading across his face.

"Yea, thanks to Spot and Vin." Vito put in.

Her eyes traveled back across them again and lit on Vin. She furrowed her brow slightly and then smiled, holding out a hand.

"Vin is it? I'm Sam."

He nodded to her and took her hand. It was small, warm and soft, like her smile. He could easily tell why the rest of the boys liked her. There was something in her wide blue eyes as she looked at him; something about her shy smile. He flipped his straight brown hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head to get a better look at her and she giggled lightly.

"How 'bout a song, Sam?" Vito asked.

"Mmm." Spot added, swigging from his glass.

"Oh, no way. You boys will have to wait." She said, hands on her hips.

"We'll be hea." Vito grinned.

"Yea, we ain't leavin' 'til youse sing." Soap said out of the corner of his mouth as he lit a cigar.

"We'll stay hea all night if we gotta." Mitts added.

She rolled her eyes, but smiled.

"Like you guys were gonna to leave anyways."


	7. Chapter 6

They had moved to a table after a few glasses each of Johnny's dark brown magic trick. Mitts was on his sixth. He was getting particularly sloppy, something the rest of the boys found hilarious because they usually didn't see him wasted. Spot gripped both the boy's shoulders as he walked, trying to keep him from falling. However, Mitts aside, Spot was probably the most drunk of them and Vin thought it was a little of the blind leading the blind. They both swayed as they moved across the bar, stumbling into chairs. Vito laughed openly at them.

"Youse guys are one too many sheets to tha wind." He toasted them.

"Vito, ya know dat don't make no sense, right?" Soap drawled re-lighting his cigar. "Youse is always doin' dat."

"What d'ya mean?"

"Well, ya used two different phrases. Either one'd work jus' fine, but together-" Soap exhaled thick smoke and glanced at Vito who was staring at him open-mouthed. "Nevamind. It's easier to jus' call youse an idiot."

Vin laughed and Vito elbowed him in the ribs, grinning.

"Alrigh' what 'bout youse and tha cigars?" He asked looking back at Soap.

"What 'bout dem?"

"I don't understand how youse smoke dem. It's like inhalin' factory smoke."

"Well, youse ain't supposed ta inhale dem, idiot." Soap retorted.

"Well den, what's tha point?" Vito asked lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply.

"If youse don't get it, youse neva will." Soap replied, blowing smoke rings.

Vito clapped him on the shoulder and they both grinned at each other.

"So, Vin. Youse know how ta play poker right?" Vito asked, scooting his chair closer to Vin's.

"Sure." Vin replied.

"I was thinkin' we's could have a little game. Say, two bits buy-in?"

Vin nodded once and then caught Soap waving frantically at him from behind Vito's head. He was mouthing the word '_No_' over and over.

"Maybe lata. Why don't youse tell me how ya got dat shina for now." He said, seizing on the yellowing bruise beneath Vito's eye for a quick change of subject.

"Oh, dat was Finch's boys. Marcus actually. See, I know a lot of tha newsies."

"More den 'a lot'." Soap put in. "Seems like every newsie in Brooklyn knows youse."

Vito inclined his head a little and shrugged.

"Guess it's my winnin' smile." Vito grinned and Soap laughed. "Anyways, afta Soap hea argued with Finch, dey all came ta me, wantin' ta know what happened. Marcus didn't like it, I guess."

Soap shook his head, frowning.

"It's all my fault." He said in a low voice. "Ya eye, Mitts' pretty face."

Mitts glared at him from across the table from where he and Spot had been talking, clearly hearing his name in the conversation.

"What 'bout my face?" He slurred.

"It looks like meat." Soap said without hesitation. "But seriously, I neva shoulda said dat stuff to Finch."

"Yea, but youse weren't wrong. He's a prick. He ain't no leader." Vito put in.

"Yea, dat's what makes me so mad. A leader's supposed to look out for the rest of dem. Supposed ta do what's best for dem. Not turn his back when dey're getting' soaked on tha streets and line his pockets while dey bleed." Soap spit on the ground, a frown on his face.

"Line his pockets?" Vin questioned.

"He's takin' kick backs from tha leader a tha Queens Newsies ta turn a blind eye." Soap sighed. "I mean, it ain't ever been a worse time ta be a Brooklyn Newsie. We got Queens newsies sellin' in our best spots. We got dem soakin' us in our own territory. We got Brooklyn boys soakin' otha Brooklyn Boys. And we gots a leader who ain't doin' shit 'bout it." Soap slammed a fist down on the table making all their glasses rattle and slosh rum.

"Hey easy, Soap." Spot's blue eyes looked sober at his friend's outburst.

He laid a hand on Soap's shoulder and Soap leaned back in his chair and puffed on his cigar.

"Ya know, youse should do somethin' 'bout it." Vin said suddenly.

"Yea, I did. All dat came a it was a coupla bruised ribs, Vito's black eye and us movin' into an abandoned warehouse."

"And now, Mitts' meat-face." Vito added to Mitts' displeasure.

"Well, tha problem is, youse ain't got tha numbers." Vin said, speaking to Soap.

Soap stared at him, narrowing his eyes.

"I mean, you got tha right idea. And youse already convinced me. Youse jus' gotta convince a few more."

"What d'ya mean, like take over?"

"Yea, I mean, dat's what youse is talkin' 'bout, right? Throwing Finch out?"

"Well, yea, but-"

"Well den, make it happen."

"It ain't dat easy."

"No one is sayin' it is."

All four of the boys at the table were staring at Vin now. Vito and Mitts had an incredulous, disbelieving air to their expressions. Spot and Soap, however, looked serious and thoughtful.

"Ya said yaself, ain't been a worse time ta be a Brooklyn Newsie. Youse guys can't be tha only one's thinkin' like dis. Vito, youse know a lot a people. Why don't youse talk to dem?"

"Sure, but-"

"What d'ya think it's gonna take to win, though?" Soap cut across Vito.

"I dunno, what do youse think it's gonna take?" Vin shot back. "A fight? Youse got tha best fighter in Brooklyn on ya side already."

He pointed at Spot who shook his head a little modestly, but they all knew it was true.

"But what 'bout Queens?"

"One step at a time. First Brooklyn, den Queens." Vin said firmly.

Soap crossed his arms and glanced over at Spot. Their eyes spoke silently to each other for a moment. Vin knew he had said nothing they didn't already know, but it had been hearing it from someone else that had done it. The wheels had begun to turn.

"Lemme think 'bout it." Soap said quietly.

Vin nodded and for a time it was quiet around the table. Then music swelled through the bar.

"Oh, sweet Lord, it's 'bout time." Vito said with a grin.

He elbowed Vin in the shoulder and pointed to the stage. Sam was on it, dressed a little more richly now in a pale pink, floaty thing that swayed as she walked. The music filled his ears and his eyes feasted on her. Her voice was rich and full as she sang.

_I had a dream, dear. _

_You had one, too._

_Mine was the best dream, _

_Because it was of you._

Spot put his fingers to his lips and whistled. Vin saw her eyes glance their direction and a smile warm her face. He felt her eyes linger an extra second on him and he grinned.

_Somethings gotta give, _

_I don't know how._

_But there's just no way _

_we can turn back now._

Vin stared. Her dress floated around her like pale pink clouds chasing a subtle breath of fresh air, which was just what she was. In the drab gray and brown surroundings, she was the sun. She lit up the place. Her smile was warming; her voice more intoxicating than all the liquor in the bar. Each tilt of her head, each wave of her hand, each glance of her blue eyes was unearthly. He realized he was leaning far back in his chair, his lips parted slightly and his eyes unfocused. He was a captive to her mesmerizing spell and the other four boys at the table looked the same way.

_Come, sweetheart, tell me. _

_Now is the time._

_You tell me your dream,_

_And I'll tell you mine._

As her song ended, the room exploded with applause, cat-calls and whistles. It was clear she was the reason that most of the people in the room came to this bar.

"God, she makes life worth livin'." Mitts sighed theatrically.

"Her voice is like an angel's." Vito nodded. "She ain't bad on the eyes either."

He elbowed Vin in the shoulder again with a smirk. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Soap staring at them and Vin remembered seeing her kiss him on the cheek.

"She's cute." Vin admitted. "She ain't my type, though."

Vito let his head roll back on his shoulders in exasperation.

"What is ya type den? Men?"

The rest of the boys chuckled into their drinks.

"Nah, I jus' usually go for goils dat are a bit prettier. I mean, she's cute, but she don't knock you off ya feet."

It was not an untrue statement. She was not the prettiest girl he had ever seen, still he had been just as entranced as the rest of them had been. There was something about her, though he was not going to admit it just yet.

Vito stared at him disbelievingly.

"What are youse outta ya mind? Did you not see the way she looks from the back when she walks?"

Soap backhanded Vito across the chest as he sat up.

"Hey, easy."

"I'm sorry, man, but she is a fine lookin' goirl."

None of them argued the point and as the music started up again, they turned their heads back to the stage to watch Sam.


	8. Chapter 7

"Hey!"

Vin woke with a hangover. It was the pounding type that made his head feel like it was going to split and the back of his eyes feel pressured like they were going to pop out of his head.

"Hey!"

He moaned as he tried to drift back to sleep. The headache that was forming in the top corners of his head did not entice him into getting out of bed. Another something that did little to help was the fact that Vito was standing over him, yelling in his ear and shaking him.

"Stop wit' tha yellin' for tha love a God." He groaned.

"Come on, ya bum, we're goin' ta Cusp."

"Youse outta ya mind? Ain't no way I'm goin' ta the bar wit'cha."

"We ain't goin' for drinks, stupid. Now get outta bed."

Vin sat up and rubbed at his eyes.

"Well, youse is clearly tha mornin' type." Vito smirked at him.

As they left the warehouse, Vin blinked rapidly as the sun from a cloudless day hit him full in the face. It was so bright, in his stupefied state, that for a moment he simply put a hand on Vito's shoulder and walked blindly behind him with his eyes shut. Vito looked back over his shoulder and, though he laughed at Vin, he didn't look a whole lot better off himself.

Vin wasn't really aware of getting to the bar, just putting one foot in front of the other and trying to will his headache back from whence it came. Vito talked non-stop, but Vin was only consciously aware of a low buzzing, little of which resembled words.

The dim light of the bar was a welcome change. Spot, Mitts and Soap sat side by side at the bar. They all looked as bad as he felt. Mitts actually had his chin down on his folded arms on the bar.

"Guess we had a little too much." Spot greeted them as they entered.

"A little?" Sam asked in a high-pitched, incredulous voice. "Mitts had a whole bottle on his own."

Mitts winced. Either at the accusation or the high-tone, Vin wasn't sure. He sank onto a bar stool next to Soap and smiled at Sam, who flashed him a radiant smile back from across the bar.

"Well, you don't look as bad as Mitts." She said lightly. "But I think you could all use a '_Sam_'."

Vin lifted an eyebrow slightly at her as she busied herself with glasses. Vito elbowed Vin in the ribs.

"Don't get no ideas now."

"I wasn't." Vin said defensively as the rest of the boys laughed.

Vin watched Sam mix something that included bananas, strawberries, milk, orange juice and honey. He wondered vaguely when he had any of those things last. He wasn't sure he would have been able to remember even if his brain hadn't been working so slowly.

She set tall glasses of the thick, pink-ish liquid in front of each of them. Despite the fact that it was incredibly sweet, he began to feel better almost immediately.

Spot had taken his almost in one. As he set his empty glass back down and gulped for air, he shook his head at Sam who had rounded the end of the bar with a wet rag. He got up from his stool and moved over to where she was wiping down one of the tables.

"Youse are an angel." He told her, planting a kiss on her cheek that she accepted with good grace.

"So, Soap, youse gonna talk ta Vin?" He said, turning back around.

"Yea." Soap said slowly, lowering his own glass. "We was jus' talkin' 'bout what youse said last night."

"Oh, yea?"

"Yea. We don't know if it can be done, but we agreed dat ain't nothin' gonna change if we jus' sit here and gripe 'bout it."

"Gripe about what?" Sam asked curiously.

Soap shot Sam a look that told her clearly to mind her own business, but she ignored it.

"What are you guys talking about?"

Soap sighed lightly and Vin saw his eyes flick to Spot.

"C'mon, let's dance, Sam." He said, taking her hand and smiling charmingly.

"You're not gonna tell me?" She asked him disbelievingly.

Spot simply smiled again and pulled her toward the stage with him. Vin saw him turn on the old phonograph in the corner and pull Sam close to him. For a fraction of a second, Vin felt jealousy burn near his stomach. He hastily pushed it aside, wondering why it had rushed there in the first place. The feeling was quickly replaced with surprised amusement over the fact that Spot could waltz.

"So what's next?" Vito asked softly, under cover of the music droning from the phonograph.

The four boys left at the bar stared at Vin.

"What'cha lookin' at me for?"

"I dunno, seemed like youse had all tha ideas last night." Soap said.

"Well- we's gotta get some people on our side. Dat's for sure. Tha newsies inside a Brooklyn and outside too- if we can manage it." Vin said slowly.

"I can talk ta Scraps." Vito volunteered at once. "I'm always down dere anyhow. Know dose boys pretty well."

"And I'll take Blue." Soap added.

"I'll deal wit' 'Hattan and tha Bronx den. Maybe East Side, Midtown and Harlem on tha way." Mitts said matter-of-factly, polishing off the rest of his '_Sam_'.

Vin looked at him questioningly. He had just volunteered to talk to half the state. Mitts glanced at him and shrugged.

"I know dem." he said lightly.

Soap grinned and waved an airy hand.

"Mitts has his eyes and ears in everyone's business." He explained.

"What? It's useful."

"Neva said it wasn't."

"So we'll meet back at tha warehouse lata?"

"Might not be back tonight." Mitts said with a sigh. "Long way ta the Bronx and back."

Soap nodded thoughtfully and then raised his voice and called to Spot.

"Youse gonna rub against Sam all day? C'mon we got work ta do." He said getting to his feet.

Spot disentangled himself from Sam, gave her a small, apologetic smile and joined them as they made for the door. Vin glanced over his shoulder at her as they left the bar. She looked alone and small standing there on the stage where Spot had left her. Her eyebrows were knit in a worried expression.


	9. Chapter 8

"Dere's trouble."

Finch sat up straight and locked his eyes on the brown haired boy who had just entered the room.

"What kind of trouble?"

"Word is: Soap, dat guy youse argued wit', he's talkin' to tha otha newsies all ova Brooklyn."

Finch frowned. He did not like the sound of that. He knew perfectly well what he and Soap had argued about. It was the type of thing that was dangerous to him. The type that had the potential to throw him off his spot at the top, and he liked the top.

"So why ain't youse dealt wit' him yet?"

No one answered him. He scanned the faces of his boys. His eyes lighting on one particularly ugly, black and blue one.

"Marcus."

"Yea, Finch?"

"Dis got anythin' ta do wit' youse?"

"Spot Conlon. He did dis." Marcus said in a low voice indicating his injuries. "He's wit' Soap."

"So? Ya scared of him?"

Despite the clear provocation, none of the boys in the room laughed. They had all been there when Marcus had received his bruises under Spot's cane. They had all seen the look in his eyes. The truth was, they were scared of him.

"It ain't gonna be easy ta get ta Soap wit' Conlon on his side." Marcus spat.

"How many of dem are dere?"

"Jus' four or five so far. But dey're gonna get stronger, Finch, and quick. Blue and Scraps are gonna take his side 'fore dey take ours."

Some of the boys in the room nodded. They were all fully aware of the situation. Some of them were quickly coming to the conclusion that they were on the wrong side of the fence. None of them could proclaim to be the brightest thinkers, but all of them knew right from wrong.

"Den we hit dem now, 'fore dey do."

"Or ya could talk wit' dem. Dey jus' want Queens outta Brooklyn territory. It is Brooklyn's, Finch, it is ours." Marcus said quietly.

Two or three of the boys closest to Marcus nodded their agreement.

"Youse mean: mine." Finch said, a dangerous edge to his voice.

Marcus swallowed hard. He was not in shape to fight anyone at the moment, least of all, Finch. He wasn't particularly scared of him, but Finch had other people backing him too, besides the boys in the room.

"Course, Finch. So what do we do?"

Finch nodded, satisfied.

"What do we know 'bout dem?"

The brown haired boy piped up at once.

"Dey go ta dis bar on Fulton street all tha time. Turns out dere's a goirl dat sings dere. She and Soap are close. Think we could use her ta-"

"No." Finch said quickly.

As he scanned the faces of his boys he realized what he had said and how it made him look. Half of them wore satisfied expressions, the other half wore raised eyebrows.

"Dis is between men. Leave her outta it." He said firmly.

One of his boys opened his mouth to argue, but Finch cut him off.

"For now." He added, a bit of menacing promise in his voice that he did not intend to make good on.

"We could talk ta Queens." Another of the boys suggested softly.

Finch balked at the mention of Queens. In fact, the whole room went silent.

"No. Dis is Brooklyn business. We'll take care a dis."

He turned his back to the boys. He did not want them to see the tiny glint of fear that lit his eyes when he thought about Queens and their leader. The truth was, they were all puppets, including himself. Queens was pulling the strings and Finch did not like to think about what would happen to them if things in Brooklyn got out of control.

"Find out where dey stay. Dis'll be ova before tha weeks out."


	10. Chapter 9

Sam was singing again. Vin sat back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest watching her, only half listening to what Soap and Spot were saying.

"Vito has been talking to Scraps and some a tha rest a tha boys dat sell at the tracks. Apparently dey're havin' some trouble wit' Queens Newsies dere and he thinks dey could be convinced to join us."

"Scraps is a good fighta. He'd be good ta have on our side. He ain't gonna do nothin' though, 'til he talks ta all a his boys. He only does something if they all agree and dere's a good twenty of dem."

"Yea and right now, dey jus' think Queens is tha problem, not Finch. Vito says they'll come around ta understand though. He says dey're better fighters than thinkers."

"Hey, youse even listenin'?"

"Yea, dat's good." Vin said shaking his head to clear it.

Soap glanced up at Sam, over at Spot and then back to Vin.

"Ya know, dat's my sista you're ogglin'."

In that fraction of a second a few things became clear to Vin. His face must have registered his surprise because both Soap and Spot chuckled at him. Vin cleared his throat and planted his eyes firmly on Soap's face.

"Sorry."

Soap closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. His face held a knowing smile.

"Ain't like I neva seen dat look before." He said and Vin sighed in relief. "I begged her not ta do it. I hate seein' guys stare at her. But she loves it."

"She loves singing more." Spot added.

"Yea, and it ain't like I could eva control her."

"Bad idea anyways, kind a goirl she is." Spot remarked.

"Oh, she's stubborn as hell alrigh'." Soap said, half resigned and half amused.

Soap was watching her now with something a little like pride in his eyes. Vin saw Sam catch her brother's eye and she blew him a kiss across the bar, making him smile and shake his head. Then Sam's eyes met his and a slow smile spread across her face. Her eyelids lowered fractionally, and she flipped her hair off her shoulders with a toss of her head.

"Still, what I ain't seen is tha way she looks at youse." Soap said slowly and Spot nodded his agreement.

Vin knit his eyebrows.

"I dunno what'cha talkin' 'bout." Vin said, hoping he sounded more casual then he felt.

"Alrigh', play dumb." Soap sighed. "Ain't like I got a say in it."

Vin glanced at Soap out of the corner of his eye as he leaned forward on the table and stared at him.

"Jus' know: I consider youse a friend." Soap's eyes were serious. "But she's family."

Vin frowned and stared at Sam, avoiding Soap's eye. He knew his friend was giving him the go-ahead with his sister. Still, Soap's blessings made him feel worse, not better. He did not intend to hurt Sam, but what if he did? Would his friendship with Soap survive it?

"I dunno, Soap." He sighed lighting a cigarette. "Ya sista's pretty fine. But we got more important things ta think 'bout right now."

Soap raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair giving Vin an appraising look and a satisfied smirk. Spot's face looked much the same and for some reason it made Vin slightly warm around the collar.

"So what 'bout 'Hattan?" He asked.

"Mitts went ova dere actually. Said dere won't be much in tha way a support. Dey're sorta leaderless. Jus' a bunch a kids. Not really organized or nothin'. Dey're smart though, Mitts said. Maybe too smart ta get in the middle a all dis." Spot answered him, his tone business-like again.

"Bronx?"

"Dey're on our side. Thing is, dey're so far away, dey ain't gonna be much use ta us. Said they'd keep an eye and ear on Queens for us though. Send word if something big happens ova dere."

Vin nodded.

"So what 'bout inside Brooklyn?" He asked Soap.

"Well, I already told youse 'bout Scraps. Or youse need me ta repeat it? I guess youse mighta been distracted." Soap said with a grin and a meaningful glance at Sam.

"Nah I heard youse." Vin said with an airy wave of his hand and a grin.

"Well, apart from Finch's boys, Scraps and his boys and us dere's only Blue and his boys. Dey used ta sell on tha north side, up by Queens, but dey been pushed completely outta dere. Dey been soaked so bad, I ain't sure if dey're up for a fight. I talked ta Blue myself."

"What'd he say?"

"Nothin' really. I mean, dey're tha ones dat are really gettin' it bad. Youse shoulda seen dem. Every single one of em got a black eye or worse. I mean, dey wanna help. Dey're prolly tha ones dat want things ta change tha most, but dey're hurtin', ya know?"

Vin nodded seriously, but Soap's face broke into a wide grin.

"Ya know, I gotta say, I'm amazed at how easy dis has been so far and how much support we got."

Vin opened his mouth to warn Soap, but he cut him off.

"I mean, I know it ain't gonna stay dis easy. But a coupla days ago, if you'd a asked me if we had a shot I'da said: no way in hell."

"But now youse think we do?"

Soap nodded slowly.

"I think so. Queens is gonna be a problem, but if we can get ridda Finch, dat'll be tha first step, right? I mean, Queens don't stand a chance if Brooklyn stands together."

Soap looked at the pair of them for confirmation. Spot grinned and Vin nodded.

Ya know, for tha first time in my life I feel like I'm doin' somethin' right. Somethin' bigger than me. Somethin' good. And I really believe we can make a difference." Soap mused.

"Dat's what makes youse a good leader." Spot shrugged.

Soap chuckled.

"Ya know, I still think dat's funny. Me. A leader. I mean, dis was all ya idea." He said backhanding Vin across the shoulder. "And if I didn't have Spot hea, I'd a said we wouldn't last a second in a fight. And Vito and Mitts, spreadin' tha word but keepin' it quiet. I dunno how dey're doin' it."

"Don't sell yaself short." Vin said, knitting his eyebrows. "All of us is backin' youse. We believe what'cha got ta say. If no one stands up and says it, nothin' changes. Dat's why youse is tha most important of all a us."

Spot nodded his agreement and Soap grinned at the pair of them. A second later his eyebrows knit and he glanced up. The music was still playing, but Sam had stopped singing. Spot and Vin looked up too. A drunken bar patron had her by the wrist and she was smiling sweetly, but trying to wrench her wrist back all the same.

"C'mere doll face." The drunk man was saying, egged on by his two equally drunk friends.

"Hey!" Soap called. "Let go a her and let her sing!"

The drunk man ignored his call and a second later had pulled her off the stage and into his lap. Soap was on his feet so fast that he overturned his chair. He crossed the bar in a few long strides and grabbed the man by his collar. Vin had followed closely, and pulled Sam away when the drunk man had let go of her in surprise.

The drunk man balled up a fist an sent a sloppy punch to Soap's cheek. For a moment Soap stared down at him, partially surprised, partially angry. Then, he sunk his own fists, one after the other into the man's gut. His two friends got to their feet, swaying drunkenly too. One of them made an angry movement towards Soap, but Spot stuck out a foot, rather casually, catching him by the ankle. He sprawled face down on the floor where Spot attempted not to laugh at him. The third man bolted for the door.

There was an angry flash in Soap's eye to rival Spot's when he was angry and he sunk one more punch into the drunken man's nose before straightening up.

"Youse havin' a good time now?" He spat.

Spot grabbed Soap by the elbow.

"Third guy prolly went for tha bulls." He said hastily. "Can't afford ta have youse in jail."

Soap rubbed at his forehead with the back of his hand and nodded.

"Better get outta hea." Johnny grunted from the bar, not bothering to look at them.

Soap glanced at Sam and with a small smile, made for the door with Spot on his heels. Vin had not completely expected to be left alone with Sam. He turned to her, scratching the back of his head.

"Well, dat was excitin'. C'mon I'll walk youse home."

She opened her mouth, but when he turned and walked away towards the door she simply followed him out of the bar.

"Can youse believe dat guy?" He asked her huffily as the door of the bar swung shut behind them.

"It happens more often than you'd think." She replied demurely.

He frowned a little.

"So why do ya do it den?"

"What? Sing?"

"Yea."

"Because I love it. I'm getting paid to do something I'd do anyways. Why wouldn't I?"

She smiled up at him and, caught in her bewitching gaze, he couldn't find it in himself to berate her. Instead he returned a small smile and reached down to take her hand as they walked on through the darkening streets.

"I can take care of myself, you know." She said lightly.

"I neva said youse couldn't. What makes youse say dat?"

"Nate and all of his friends are the same. They all want to protect me."

"Now, first off, I ain't tha same as all a Soap's friends."

"Oh really?"

"Yea. And second, who says I'm tryin' ta protect youse?"

"You're holding my hand."

Vin raised an eyebrow and glanced down at their intertwined fingers.

"Oh, dat, well dat's jus' in case youse slip on some ice or somethin'."

"Vin?"

"Hrm?"

"It's June."

"Right, I know."

She laughed at him. Her blue eyes sparkled and he was momentarily distracted, thinking of how different they were from Soap's serious brown ones.

"Soap says youse his sista."

"True enough."

"Youse don't look anythin' like him."

"Well, I'm his half-sister. We both had the same mother. I guess we take after our fathers."

"Makes sense."

"His father ran out on them. Mine died, and our mother went when I was ten. Since then it's just been me and Nate. He's always kept an eye on me. He's a good brother."

They were silent for a time, contented with walking beside each other.

"So what about yours?"

"Eh, youse don't wanna know."

"See, you are trying to protect me. I'm not as delicate as everyone seems to think, ya know."

Vin smirked very slightly.

"Alrigh'. My fadda was a mean drunk and he used ta smack me Mum around. She was a tough ol' bird though, and she'd take it. Sometimes she'd give him a few back." Vin frowned and stared up at the night sky above him. "But den one night they got ta arguin' and he hit her ova tha back a tha head wit' a fryin' pan while I was sittin' at the kitchen table, watchin'. She didn't get up and I wasn't gonna stick around and be tha next one he killed."

"I- I'm sorry." She managed, staring at him open-mouthed.

"S'alrigh'." He chuckled at the look on her face. "But ya know, sometimes when people don't tell youse shit, it ain't cause dey don't think ya strong enough ta take it."

She held his steady gaze, a little abashed but mostly intrigued.

"Soap cares 'bout youse. I can tell, and dere's a chance he could end up lookin' like Mitts, ya know? What we're doin' is a little dangerous, I ain't gonna lie. But it's important. And havin' youse worryin' ain't gonna make it any easier on him."

"I guess that makes sense." She sighed and frowned.

"See, don't do dat."

"Sorry." She said with a grin.

"Ya prettier when youse smile anyways."

A faint blush tinged her cheeks and she changed the subject abruptly.

"So what's 'Vin' short for?"

He grinned at her.

"Guess."

"Vincent?"

"Nope."

"Uh- Vinny? Vince? Vinchenzo?"

"Dat's all tha same name."

"I know, but I can't think of anything else that starts with 'Vin'!"

"You're neva gonna guess."

"Then tell me!"

"Nuh uh."

"Why not?"

" 'Cause den I'll lose my air of mystery!"

She rolled her eyes at him, but smiled. The look on her face brought a grin to his lips and sent a shiver down his back.

"So, uh- by tha way, where do youse live?"

She met his eyes with a mischievous grin.

"Above the bar."

He stopped walking, pulling her to a stop with him.

"Den why did we jus' leave?"

"You said you wanted to walk with me."

"Yea, but-"

"I wanted to walk with you too."


	11. Chapter 10

"Soap!"

The call, though distant, echoed through the warehouse and effectively halted all motion inside it.

Spot's cigarette was halfway to his lips. Soap's hand had stopped midway to the deck of cards that it had been his turn to deal. Mitts' mouth had fallen open and Vin had been whistling a tune that stopped mid-note.

The only thing that moved was the smoke from Spot's cigarette as it drifted upwards and the boy's eyes as they took in each other's reactions.

"Soap!" Came the call again.

Quicker and more quietly than Vin imagined anyone could, Mitts was on his feet next to the dirty window with his back against the wall. He peered out of it, careful to stay out of sight.

"It's Finch." He said quietly. "And tha rest of dem."

"How'd he find us?" Vin asked.

No one had any answers.

"Youse guys go out tha back. Youse can get lost in tha scaffolding, while I distract dem out front." Spot said after a moment.

"No." Soap said immediately.

"Soap-"

"I ain't runnin'."

"Soap listen ta me." Spot's eyes were narrowed and his voice was low and urgent. "Dey're hea for a reason. Dey're hea ta beat youse so bad youse can't walk, much less organize Brooklyn against dem. Dis thing ain't even off tha ground yet, but if it's important ta youse, den youse go out tha back."

His eyes did not leave Soap's.

"Spot-"

"Mitts."

Spot uttered the word like a command and Mitts did not need to be told in words what to do. He strode back to them, grabbed Soap with one hand on his shoulder, the other on his wrist and hauled him out of his seat. Soap did not argue or struggle against Mitts, but his eyes did not leave Spot's until they both were out of sight.

"Soap!" Came the call again.

Spot's eyes found Vin who hadn't moved from his seat.

"Youse go wit' dem." He said jerking his chin after Mitts and Soap. Vin met Spot's ice-blue eyes with a clenched jaw.

"I ain't important. I'm stayin'."

Vin's words hung in between them for a moment. Spot did not look angry or argumentative. In fact, Vin thought he detected a tiny hint of gratefulness in them. A second later, Spot dropped his forgotten cigarette as it burned him and got to his feet. His face was the mask of absolute impassiveness that Vin had seen only once before, the first day he had met him.

Together they crossed to the warehouse door as if marching to their execution. At the door, with one hand on the handle, Spot stopped again.

"Listen, all a Finch's boys are big. You punch a big guy in tha gut and it ain't gonna do nothin'. So aim for noses. Give a guy a bloody nose and his eyes'll water up. Can't see a thing." He said quickly. "And stay close, don't let dem separate us."

Vin swallowed hard, but nodded and Spot pulled open the door.

Like déjà vu, Vin saw the seven boys from the end of the alley where he had found Mitts lined up at the end of the pier. If anything, they looked bigger and meaner now than they had then. In the middle of them stood a sneering, thick, dirty-looking boy with brown hair. He was the biggest of them and he took a step forward from the rest. This had to be Finch.

"Where's Soap?" He spat.

"He ain't hea." Spot lied easily.

"I ain't playin'. Where is Soap?" Finch said, his voice gruff and angry.

"He. Ain't. Hea." Spot said, measuring his words, a tiny hint of annoyed sarcasm in them.

The boys slowly swarmed closer as Finch eyed them both. It seemed as if his eyes were boring into them, trying to detect the truth.

"Well, we's came hea for a fight, but if Soap ain't hea and youse two is volunteerin' ta take his place-"

"Youse think dis is gonna solve ya problems?" Spot called suddenly. "Youse think dat soakin' us is gonna keep tha otha newsies from knowin' tha truth? Brooklyn is gonna make it's own choice, Finch. Youse ain't gonna be able ta soak tha whole place inta submission."

"Maybe, maybe not." Finch replied airily. "Guess we'll start wit' youse two and find out."

Spot and Vin stood back to back encircled by Finch's boys. Like water crashing in waves against a rock they held their ground. Spot was like a storm, his cane whirling and crashing through the air like cracks of thunder. Vin merely defended Spot's back, moving with him as he beat back their attackers with vicious swings of his cane and furious punches. Knees connected with guts; knuckles to noses; elbows to jaws. Spot and Vin both took hits and dished them out.

After a few good knocks to his skull, Vin found it easier to simply react than think. He was unsure whether it was because his brain was unwilling to work or if it was the true secret of fighting that he had somehow tapped into. Adrenaline pumped through their veins. Shouts rang in their ears and blood dripped, slow and wet, from various parts of their bodies.

Strong hands grabbed Vin. A pair on each of his arms. For a moment he struggled. He saw Spot's red and black cane swing; felt one pair of hands release him, but another pair gripped tighter a second later. Knuckles crashed against his nose and his vision blurred. The hands that held his arms propelled him through the air and he landed hard on the ground. He blinked rapidly, unable to see what was coming next. He heard Spot's voice call his name, but distantly. His slow brain worked through it. They had separated them. He braced for the pummeling he knew was to come.

Oddly enough, it didn't.

Voices were shouting words his brain could not comprehend.

"Beggers can't choose their port in a storm, ya know!"

"We was doin' fine on our own."

"Sure ya was!"

The noise of the fight raged on, but became further away. He pushed himself into a sitting position on the ground and stared up. There were at least twenty five pairs of legs on the street. Far more than what he and Spot had been facing down.

"Vin!"

Spot's voice seemed far away, though he was kneeling next to him.

"Youse alrigh'?"

"Yea." Vin responded a little unsure. "What happened?"

"Vito showed up. Brought Scraps and his boys. Mitts musta run full tilt all tha way dere."

"Remind me ta thank Mitts." Vin muttered as Spot helped him to his feet.

Spot grinned. Vin noticed he had a gash above his eye that was slowly oozing blood and every single knuckle on both his hands were darkening with bruises, but otherwise seemed completely untouched. Spot steered him onto a nearby crate, sat down next to him and lit a very bent cigarette, then handed Vin the pack and matches.

Vin extracted one with difficulty and attempted to strike a match. After three or four attempts he had successfully burned off the tip of the match, but had produced no spark. Spot chuckled a little and took the matches from him, struck one up, and held it to the end of Vin's cigarette.

"Youse a fair fighta." He said after a minute.

"Got nothin' on youse." Vin replied truthfully.

"Wouldn't a done so well without someone at my back." Spot admitted.

Vin shrugged.

"Well-" Spot hesitated. "Thanks."


	12. Chapter 11

The place had been prearranged. The two boys met in the darkened alley. Their voices were low.

"Did youse talk to Finch?"

"Yea, he's comin'. He'll prolly be 'bout ten minutes."

"Good, what else youse got for me?"

"The guys name is Nathan Matlack. Dey call him Soap. He's stayin' in a warehouse on the East River. He's also got a sister at a bar on Fulton street. Place is called 'Cusp'. Dey're dere all tha time. Soap ain't much but ideals, really."

"So why's he getting support?"

"He's got some kid named Vito. Dis Vito kid is real well known. Well-liked. He's a smooth talker too, convinvin' tha Brookies dat Finch is takin' kick backs and dat it ain't how Brooklyn should run. Scraps has already taken their side. Jus' a matter a time 'fore Soap has all of Brooklyn backin' him."

The first boy nodded.

"Dere's also a guy named Spot Conlon. Supposedly, tha best fighter in Brooklyn. He's backin' Soap, too. I ain't seen him fight, but he's got a reputation." The boy hesitated. "A big one."

"Dat's good work."

"Should I get lost for when Finch shows?"

"Stay near, but outta sight."

The boy nodded and turned to leave, but hesitated and turned back.

"Somethin' else?" The first boy questioned.

"It might be nothin'." The scout said uneasily. "But I think Finch has a tail."

The first boy raised his eyebrows.

"I ain't sure. Whoever it is, he's damn good."

The first boy was silent for a time, then he nodded as if coming to some conclusion in his head.

"Set up the bar. Call them out. Tonight. Send Hinges and Ick. Den get some more of the guys and meet me hea."

The scout nodded in almost a salute and left the alley. The first boy leaned back against the alley wall and lit a cigarette, waiting. He did not have to wait long. Finch showed up a few minutes later, pale in the moonlight. A dark bruise standing out clearly on his cheek.

"Things seem ta be getting outta ya control." The boy said lazily.

"Look, if ya boys'd jus' stop soakin mine in Brooklyn territory, none a dis woulda happened."

"What do I pay youse for den?"

Finch opened his mouth, but didn't speak. For a moment he was silent, then he changed tactics.

"Bottom line is: I can't keep dis quiet. Half a Brooklyn is on his side already. We tried soakin' him ta shut him up, but he's got dis guy. Spot Conlon. He's like a hurricane. I ain't eva seen anythin' like it."

"I'll have him taken care of."

"I'm warnin' youse. He looks like a skinny fuck, but youse betta send ya best."

"He won't be a problem."

Finch seriously doubted that, but held his tongue.

"What 'bout Soap?"

"I can't do nothin' 'til Spot's taken care of. He's like a one-man army. I can't get to Soap."

"What 'bout the goil?"

Finch shifted uncomfortably on his feet. The thought had occurred to him, but he had not acted on it.

"I ain't messin' wit' his family. It's him I want dealt wit', not some goil." He said quietly.

"But dey are close enough dat he would try and shield her, yes?"

"Well, yea, but I already tol' youse. That ain't how we do things in Brooklyn. Jus' take care a Spot. Forget tha goil."

Unnerved, Finch spun on his heel and left the alley. He did not hear what the boy standing in the shadows said quietly to himself.

"Maybe not, but I ain't from Brooklyn."


	13. Chapter 12

Mitts was out of breath, but he felt like he could have run forever. He crashed through the warehouse door.

"They're goin' to tha bar." He gasped.

Vin, Spot and Soap stared up at him.

"What?"

"They're goin' afta Sam."

Soap was on his feet in an instant, but Spot grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Hol' on. Who is Mitts?"

"Queens. I followed Finch. He met with Rock. They're gonna use Sam to get to Soap."

Soap made to tear from Spot's grip, but Spot grabbed him with both hands.

"Let the fuck go!" He yelled.

"Youse can't go." Spot said quietly.

"Tha fuck I can."

"Dey prolly want youse to." Vin whispered.

"I don't care. Don't youse understand? It's Sam."

"And don't youse understand? Dey're prolly gonna kill youse both when youse show!" Spot yelled back, his face inches from Soap's. "Youse tha leader! People believe what youse gotta say! I believe in it! So youse gotta stay safe! Youse important!"

None of them had ever heard Spot yell. His eyes were flashing dangerously. For a moment all three boys stared at him. He breathed deeply through his nose and was seconds later back in control of himself.

"I'll go. Youse stay hea, Soap. We need youse. Brooklyn needs youse."

He didn't give Soap any time to argue, but turned on his heel and left the warehouse. Soap crumpled back into a chair. He knew that if anyone stood a chance, it was Spot. He still didn't like the idea of doing nothing.

"I'm goin' wit' him." Vin said suddenly, getting to his feet. "Mitts, go find Vito."

"On it."

"Soap-"

"I know." Soap whispered. "I'll stay. Jus' don't let anythin' happen to her."

They knew something was wrong the moment they entered the bar. It was empty and dead quiet. As he always did, with a motion like unsheathing a sword, Spot drew his cane from his suspenders.

"Johnny?" He called. "Sam?"

Vin stared around the room, his eyes taking in everything, as Spot strode towards the bar. There was absolutely no one here. Not even a few slumped bar patrons. Besides that though, nothing seemed wrong. Nothing was out of place.

"Vin!"

Vin's eyes snapped toward Spot who was leaning over the bar. He joined him. Slumped against the wall behind the bar was Johnny. Spot vaulted the bar and shook the old man. His lifeless body slid sideways across the wall, leaving a dull red streak where his back had been.

"Fuck." Spot whispered.

"Sam!" Vin shouted, looking around wildly.

Wordlessly, a little numbly they crossed to the stage. She lay just behind the curtains, like a forgotten act, in the same dull red colored pool that Johnny had.

"Sam." Vin whispered as he knelt next to her and lifted her head off the floor.

Spot, always wary, stared around silently. Ready for an attack that would not come. Vin shook her slightly. When she didn't respond he looked up at Spot. For a long moment they stared at each other. Then she coughed.

"Sam." He felt sudden relief surge through him.

"Nate..." She moaned.

"Don't talk."

She shook her head weakly.

"I was bait for Spot... They want Nate..." She choked, spitting blood from her mouth.

"Spot."

He didn't need to say another word. It was painfully obvious in that moment that the place they needed to be was the one they had just left. Spot left the bar at a full run.

"Vin."

"Stop. I'm gonna get youse to a doctor. Jus' breath."

She shook her head weakly.

"I won't live that long, Vin. Just stay here with me."

Vin's eyes traveled down her chest and stomach. There were several long, deep red stains in her dress. He felt his jaw clench too tight for words. Oddly, she smiled.

"I was hoping you'd come... Do you remember that night we walked together and you said... 'Sometimes people don't tell you things'..."

"It ain't 'cause dey don't think youse ain't strong enough to take it." He nodded.

"I have something I wanna tell you... But I don't think... I should... "

Vin's eyes widened. He felt his heart leap into his throat and pound there as if it were trying to get out. The back of his eyes burned, but he blinked the tears back. He didn't want to appear weak. He didn't want his crying face to be the last thing she saw. So he hefted a smile onto his face. It was one that did not reach his eyes, but she smiled back at his effort, until it became too much and the life left her eyes.


	14. Chapter 13

Spot wandered. He had no idea where he was going, but he didn't much care. There was no safe place for him anymore. He had been to the warehouse. Had seen the long, deep, shockingly red wounds in Soap's chest. Maybe it had been hours, maybe only minutes, that he had knelt there beside his friend.

Mitts' face had been shocked. His skin pale, his eyes wide and his mouth open. Vito had actually cried, something Spot had never seen him do.

And they only knew the half of it.

He hadn't been able to find the words to tell them that Soap wasn't the only one, but he thought maybe Mitts had understood anyways.

Spot was sure Vin was out here on the streets somewhere too, probably singing her song softly to himself.

_I had a dream, dear. You had one, too._

A dream to fix everything. To make it right. The dream of a boy with conviction stronger than iron and a heart bigger than Brooklyn. A heart that had stilled tonight.

_Mine was the best dream, Because it was of you._

They had shared his dream, briefly. They had believed in it; believed that with enough hard work and a few black eyes they could fix Brooklyn. They had believed in the goodness in people's hearts. They had not counted on the blackness of other's.

_Somethings gotta give, I don't know how._

They had given. Each of them had lost something that night. A sister. A friend and leader. They had lost something important, but it was more than just people. That loss, alone, weighed heavily on him, but in truth, it was something more intangible he had lost.

_But there's just no way we can turn back now._

He had lost his heart. He had learned the true nature of human beings. There was a line between right and wrong; between good and evil. Good was a boy with conviction and bright ideas. Good was a blond beauty with the voice of an angel. Good was gone. He was not so dim as to follow blindly in their footsteps. He would learn from their mistakes. He would tread closer to that line.

_Come, sweetheart, tell me. Now is the time._

Why hadn't he seen this coming? All of this was bigger than the five of them. What chance did five boys standing for what was right, have against Brooklyn; Against the world? The world with it's black hearts that would chew them up and spit them and their childish ideals out.

_You tell me your dream, And I'll tell you mine._

He halted in his tracks. They had been childish. It had been a dream; to ask for something so important and not expect anything to lose anything in return. Soap's question that night in the bar floated through his head. _'What d'ya think it's gonna take ta win?'_ Not this. None of them had expected this. No one had expected Soap would die for his dream.

Spot would never let dreams lead him ever again. Dreams were fantasies; impossible wishes, nothing more. Dreams never came true. He supposed that was what made them dreams. If they did come true, they were never really a dream in the first place, but something more realistic. Something not worth dreaming of.


	15. Chapter 14

It was getting dark. Spot, Mitts and Vito, three of the original five walked side by side. They had a purpose. They were going to retrieve their fourth. None of them had voiced their destination, but they all knew it. They would find their fourth where the fifth lay.

The graves were side by side. The turned earth was still dark and moist. Vin sat with his back against her headstone. Leaning his head back against it, staring up at the darkening sky.

"Vin. Youse can't sleep hea. C'mon let's go back ta tha warehouse." Vito said quietly.

Vin stared around at him, as if he had only just noticed they was there.

"Dis is all my fault." He croaked.

Spot sighed. People always seemed to want to take the blame when they felt bad about something, even when it wasn't their fault. He remembered Soap had said the same thing.

"No, it's not."

Vin shook his head.

"I was the one who pushed Soap on." He sighed. "I was the one who made him a target."

Spot's eyes found the other grave stove. Beneath the dirt, what was left of their friend lay lifeless and breathless. He wanted to be angry at someone; wanted to blame someone for what had happened. It was true that Vin had started it all. Mitts had brought them the information that they had acted on without thinking. Even he, himself, had left Soap's side.

He ran his hand down his face, sighing heavily. They were all to blame.

"I'm gonna disappear into 'Hattan." Vin said suddenly.

"What?"

"I ain't stayin'."

Spot's fists clenched involuntarily.

"I don't think I can walk by the bar every day."

Vin's hand reached out to touch the cold stone that marked the place where her head lay. He had wanted it to be warm and soft, like her, but it wasn't. He felt stupid for wishing it. After a long silence, when it became clear that Vin was going to stay like that until someone did something, Vito put a hand on Vin's shoulder again.

"Vin, if ya leave, all dis is gonna come crumblin' down. Scraps is at tha warehouse. Blue sent word he's comin'." Spot licked his dry lips. "Youse was second-in-command. We need youse."

Vin shook his head slowly.

"It ain't me dey want. It's youse." Vin met Spot's eyes. "Youse know it's true."

Spot swallowed hard.

"I can't do it alone." He said quietly, almost pleadingly.

"Youse have to." Vin said matter-of-factly. "Brooklyn needs one leader. A leader dat'll do right by her. Dat's what dis has always been about. If I stay, there'll be two and it's gotta be one."

"It was supposed ta be Soap." Spot whispered.

A slight breeze ruffled their hair and seemed to take the words away, blowing them on. None of them spoke for a long moment.

"But now it's youse."

The three boys stared at the fourth. There was truth to his words; weight to their meaning.

"It'll be like I neva existed in Brooklyn."

"People are gonna remember ya face; ya name." Vito murmured.

Vin shrugged.

"Youse know newsies, tha boys'll come and go. In a few years, no one will remember my face."

Spot stared at Vin. His eyes were distant; sad, but resolute.

"And as for tha name, youse can call me Jack Kelly from now on."

"Vin-"

"Jack Kelly." He corrected, with the tiniest of grins.

He held his hand out to shake Spot's as if they were meeting for the first time. Spot's eyes lit on the hint of smirk that twitched the left corner of his mouth. It looked like the shadow of his old friend shining through the haze of pain. Spot shook his hand.

"Youse gonna lead dem now. Youse gonna have ta carry dat weight."

"Why me?"

" 'Cause ya can."

Jack Kelly wheeled around and strode away from them. His hands in his pockets, whistling a tune they knew all too well.

Spot glanced to his right at Mitts. There was a hint of sadness in his eyes, but he was watching Jack go with a satisfied expression. Spot glanced left at Vito. His eyebrows were knit and he was frowning.

"I'm goin' wit' him." Vito said suddenly. "Someone's gotta look after him."

He glanced at Spot and then Mitts.

"Don't look so serious youse two! He said 'Hattan. Ain't dat far away. 'Sides you know I can't stay away from tha tracks for too long."

He offered a hand to both Spot and Mitts, who shook.

"Plus, he's right, ya know. Youse gonna lead dem." He gave Spot one of his rare serious stares.

"I don't wanna lead dem." Spot answered truthfully.

Vito shrugged and turned to catch up with Jack. Then he hesitated and turned back.

"Oh, and while were makin' up names. Youse two can call me Racetrack from now on. I always wanted ta be called dat."

Spot grinned slightly as they watched Racetrack run after Jack, catch up with him and clap him on the shoulder.

"Dey'll be fine." Mitts said after a minute.

"Yea." Spot nodded. "I know."


	16. Chapter 15

The warehouse was quiet.

Scraps had not left. Blue had turned up only a few days later. It was as if Soap's lingering dream had called to them; the violence of his end had spoken to them. The choice was being made. Brooklyn was coming together.

Despite the fact that the warehouse now housed around thirty boys. All of them sat silent and still. Waiting for what would come next.

None of them asked the question of leadership. As of yet it was a loose alliance of two groups of boys and what remained of a third. None of them asked, because they all knew, but Spot Conlon had sat at the end of the pier for the better part of three days. Watchful, but silent.

Around noon, seven boys showed up, led by Marcus. They stood crowded at the end of the pier, but they did not advance on it. They stood still and silent. They were an emotionless sea, but they were threatening all the same.

The boys on the pier got to their feet, staring. It was a few minutes before someone pushed their way to the front of the crowd. He advanced a few paces from the rest of the boys, leaving the safety of their numbers; standing in the no-man's land between the two groups of boys.

"Why are you hea, Marcus?" Spot called down the pier.

Marcus shifted uncomfortably at being called out, but he too advanced a few paces into the neutral territory, holding both of his empty hands up in surrender and as an act of good faith.

"Finch is gone, high-tailed it."

"So what? Now youse want to back Soap? It's a little late for dat."

"No." Marcus called, his voice firm. "We's hea ta back youse."

In the silence that followed, the air practically crackled with electricity. Spot shook his head disbelievingly. He turned his back on Marcus and took one step back towards his boys when Marcus' voice rent the air again.

"We's fightas. We ain't killas. Soap and Finch are both gone. I ain't no leader and even if I was, I ain't 'bout ta side wit' Queens. So all dat's left is youse, Conlon."

"Vin-"

"We don't want Vin."

Spot's back was still turned to Marcus. His ice blue eyes scanned the faces of his own boys. There was approval and hesitant triumph written plainly on all their faces. His eyes lit on one particular face. Mitts nodded once. A motion that was so small it was almost imperceptible.

He breathed deeply through his nose and turned back towards Marcus and his boys. His jaw was set. His features resolute.

"I'm gonna say dis right now: Dere ain't gonna be no more fightin' between Brooklyn Newsies." His voice was measured and steady. It carried to everyone on both sides of the docks.

"Our only enemy is Queens. Dat's tha way it always should have been."

There were murmurs of ascension from both in front and behind him.

"If all a youse can agree ta dat," His eyes raked the faces of the boys at the end of the pier. "Den we're on tha same side."

Wordlessly, Marcus stepped forward, brought the palm of his right hand up to his face and spit in it. Then he held it out to Spot.

The Brooklyn Newsies, delighted at being a united front for the first time, would drink, toast and laugh themselves into friendship that night. Barriers would break, old grudges would be forgotten and all emnity would be lightly tossed away in the face of a new struggle against Queens; a struggle they would face down as a whole. It was one they would conquer, easily, under the leadership of Spot Conlon.

Unlike any other leader in the history of Brooklyn, he was to be the first the newsies had chosen for themselves. He was the youngest leader they had ever had and the most respected. He shouldered the weight of it like a man, with calm, emotionless eyes and a smirk. Few would ever know that he had never wanted it.


	17. Epilogue

It was still mid-morning, but it was already hot. It was the kind of heat that settled along the ground, cooking you from the feet up.

Scraps had started a card game in the shade of the peeling, white-washed warehouse. Blue was in the water beneath the pier, like many of the other boys. It was one of the only sure-fire ways they knew to beat the heat.

Spot Conlon stared out over the East River from his perch high atop the wooden scaffolding that rose above the dock. He liked to be up high. He liked to see things before they were coming. He was always wary.

"Hey Spot."

"Heya Mitts."

Mitts leaned up against the scaffolding and crossed his arms on his chest. There was something about his attitude, his stance and the smirk on his face. He had the air of a boy cradling a bombshell.

"What'cha got?"

Mitts smirked, putting off the moment of telling Spot from second to second. Mostly, because he knew it annoyed Spot and there was just something about doing it that Mitts liked. Spot never let anyone else get away with it and Mitts knew just how to hold back long enough to irk him, but not make him angry.

"Dere's an old friend comin' ta see ya."

Spot knit his eyebrows at the vague news.

"What d'ya mean, _'old friend'_?"

"Well, we only gots a coupla a dem left, don't we?" Mitts said knowing he was further provoking Spot. "See for yaself though."

He pointed. Far out along the dock, three figures were making their way down it.

"Dey're strikin' in 'Hattan. Ain't sellin' pape's. Been talkin' ta newsies all ova New York. Rallyin' dem ta tha cause."

As the three figures moved closer, he recognized the tallest one. Spot shook his head.

"He jus' can't help hisself, can he?"

It seemed as if a few more boys were recognizing him too. Spot could see a few of his boys with knitted eyebrows jerk their chins at the tall boy and ask other boys for confirmation. He could almost hear the name they were whispering to each other.

"Dey recognize him." He said softly to Mitts. "Ain't been dat long."

"Nah, dey think dey do. Dey ain't sure though." Mitts said, astutely.

"Can't have dat." Spot grinned at his friend.

"Well, if it ain't Jack-be-nimble, Jack-be-quick." He called.

He saw Jack's eyes flick up to him, still perched high atop the scaffolding.

"So ya moved up in tha world, Spot. Got a river view and everythin'?"

Spot smirked slightly as he climbed over the rail of the scaffolding and jumped the last few feet onto the pier, landing with a dull thud in front of his old friend. For the space of a second, they stared at each other.

Spot saw the grin that spread slowly across Jack's face. It was good to see that he could smile once again.

Jack saw Spot standing tall, the respect of all of Brooklyn at his back. It was exactly how he had known it would be.

They grinned at each other and shook hands.

* * *

A.N. So? What did you think? Please leave me a review and let me know!


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